


Give To The Thief

by Louffox



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Ace!Zolf, Asexual Character, Bad French Accents, Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Madame - Freeform, Master/Servant, Mistress, Oral Sex, PTSD, PWP, Sasha taking back control, Smut, trans!Zolf but it's super subtle and mostly just my hc, use of titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: When she's around Zolf, Sasha is finally able to find her freedom. Her safety. She doesn't have to take. He will give willingly, happily.
Relationships: Sasha Racket/Zolf Smith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Give To The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> someone said Sasha somethingsomethingsomething Madam/Ma'am and I went off a bit. This isn't even one of my big ships, but with friends like these- I'll sail anywhere with you guys <3

"If we're going to do this... what should I call you?"

She tilts her head, crosses her arms. "You just... call me Sasha, yeah?"

Zolf is already shaking his head. "I... look, I'm probably gonna end up drawing associations with this. Hell, you might too. These things happen. And I know that you don't like that when you're doing other stuff."

"I really don't," she agrees, nodding. She knows about associations. Like how wearing jewelry makes her skin crawl. And he's right, she doesn't like having hungry horny thoughts when she's trying to get other shit done. "Aiight. I see. Then you can..."

"Master or mistress is used pretty often, in these cases."

She wrinkles her nose. Too possessive. She wants respect and obedience, not full mastery. Her life has seen too much slavery to be comfortable with the word master.

Then it clicks, and she grins. "How about... ma'am? Or madam?"

"I don't speak french," he points out. She puts her finger under his chin and tilts his head up, up, up, until his back is arching and he's stretched up on his knees, spine straight, chest high.

"I don't need you speaking french. I need you being you, so I can be me. Say it."

"Madam," he says, the word coarse in his west clip, and she smiles. It's not elegant, and it is respectful. She hates the former but needs the latter, and this covers all those bases perfectly. She feels both loose and tight at the word, fight tension easing, fuck tension coiling.

"Say it again," she says, stepping forward, taking his hands and putting them on her hips. They will stay where she puts them. He will not do anything but what she wants, what she allows. This is how this works.

"Madam." His voice is husky and his eyes follow her hands as she reaches down and slips her trousers off without fanfare.

She shivers and crowds forward more, taking a handful of his hair and guiding him to the hot, damp core of her. He can break free of her hold easily. This is about permission, caution, giving and taking as one wished. The freedom to be a person. The freedom to give and take pleasure.

Mostly giving. Zolf will not take anything more than she allows. He keeps his hands on her hips, holding her up as her breath catches, as she puts one leg over his shoulder. Normally, she's steady as stone, flexible, agile, balanced, graceful. Now she shivers, sways as he licks and mouths and hums.

She grinds her cunt on his face, and he presses his tongue inside, wet muscle, flexing and lapping. She can't even hump against him anymore when he picks up a pattern that leaves her hunching her back, holding onto his hair, sobbing slightly at the overwhelming sensations. He licks her opening, dipping in and tugging, then mouths up her folds to tap her clit with his tongue. She gasps deep, almost coming before he licks back down, teasing her clenching hole as she tries to clamp down and come around him.

Over and over.

She's desperate. But this is what she loves. Dragging out the need pleasure just before the peak, running along the slim line right before she falls. He keeps her there, swaying, until finally she gives a tiny needful buck of her hips and a whimper. By now, she's just a collection of nerves, her awareness- usually so expansive, seeing everything, checking, searching, seeking, watching, always on watch, always on guard- is now a tiny narrowed point. All she knows is pleasure. She's barely even aware of Zolf as a person. Her entire focus like the point of a knife is on getting there.

A few more focused licks up her clit, teasing the hood, then rapid taps right to that hard bundle of nerves, the most precious stone of her, and she stops breathing entirely, thighs pressing his head and her spine going taut as she comes.

It's mostly his saliva slicking her by the time she sighs and slips her leg off his shoulder, staggering a step back. He's greedily licked every bit of musk and come from her core, delighting in the power and taste of her pleasure.

"Do you need anything, madam?" he asks.

She shakes her head, catching her breath. One more stuttering sigh, and he can almost see her set herself back into usual form, breathing steady, neck straight, chin down, eyes up.

But it's not fear that supports her stance. It's confidence. Surety. And maybe a tiny bit of pride. She so rarely can let herself have this, all her ghosts and past continuing to take from her even when she's left them far behind. And when she manages to kick them out, find herself, and take her own, the pride is almost as heady as the afterglow.

"You got a kerchief?"

He nods, pulls one out of his pocket, hands it to her. He's hard, but not needy. Though his own cock throbs between his legs, he feels satiated, satisfied. She won't bother him to take care of himself, she won't try and return the deed. She knows what he needs- it's not that. It's what's already been done. He needs nothing more.

"An I need my trousers."

"Yes ma'am." He picks them up and hands them to her, and she pulls them on, and holds out the kerchief. He takes it. It smells like her, but then he can smell little else, with how long and deep he'd burrowed his face in her.

"Thanks." She nods once at him, now an appropriate distance away, and he stands. "What're you making for dinner?"

"Thinking stuffed peppers. You wanna peel potatoes?"

"Sure. You're.... you're a real good cook, Zolf."

He smiles, recognizing where they're standing now, and says, "Alright, Sasha?"

"Dandy."

Side by side, they go to make dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Sasha? SASHA FUCKS.
> 
> ~~someone bully me into writing the sasha knifeplay I've been dying to read for ages~~   
>  ~~or yknow any of yall are welcome to write it~~


End file.
